Cross My Heart and Hope to Die
by justicemuffins
Summary: SISSAH: The Stark Industries Self Sustaining Artificial Heart. Following his confrontation with Loki, Phil Coulson became the first test subject of the working prototype. But prototypes aren't meant to last forever. (Sequel to "If I Only Had a Heart.")
1. Hiccup

**Okay, so I finally got around to writing the first chapter to the sequel to "If I Only Had a Heart." Hopefully it's not utter shit, but we'll see. I'm going to try to go a little more in depth with this one, so it might get a little gritty at times. Just as a heads up.**

**We've got both Established Capsicoul and Extablished Pepperony in this fic, so that... shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. Ah... and I think that's all for now. Thank you for taking the time to read. :D**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own shit.**

* * *

"Steve, you have to let go," Bruce tells him softly. "He's gone."

Steve shakes his bowed head. That's not true. The hand in his is still warm. "He doesn't have a pulse, you know that, it doesn't mean—"

"_Steve._"

Bruce's hand is on his wrist, Clint's hands on his shoulders. He hears crying. Surely it's not him? No, the pitch is wrong. Pepper, maybe. But his face is wet.

"Stop," he says, pulling against them.

He wants to stay.

"It's just gonna hurt worse the longer you stay," Clint says, his voice sounding rough.

"He's not… We can't be sure… How can you just _give up_ on him?" Steve demands, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

"Steve. Listen to me," Tony says. He's standing in the way. He's blocking Steve's view. "Phil's dead."

"No."

"_Yes_," Tony says, insistently. His voice is shaking. "What, you think I want to say it? You think I'd fuck around with you if he weren't?"

Steve shakes his head. He clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on the hand in his. But he's being pulled. They're pulling him away and he can't leave, he can't leave him. He can't give up, not after everything they've gone through, not after they tried so hard to get where they are.

But they keep pulling.

And pulling.

And pulling.

* * *

"Steve."

He wakes to the sound of his name. It's dark enough still so that he can't see, but he knows where he is. He knows the feel of cool, cotton sheets well enough to tell he's in his bed, knows the feeling of the gun-calloused hand in his well enough to tell that it's Phil beside him. The feeling of fingers carding through his hair, that's familiar, too. Burying his face in the crook of the agent's neck, he waits for his breathing to slow.

"Nightmare?" Phil says questioningly.

"Yeah," Steve replies.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Phil asks in that tone of voice that means he's not pushing it one way or the other.

"No," Steve sighs. "Come here, though?"

Phil complies, shifting at the direction of Steve's hands until his back is pressed to the super soldier's chest. Steve's arms wrap around Phil securely, holding him fast. Though, it's more appropriate to say that Phil's the one anchoring _him_ down. He's careful about where he places his hands, making sure that, as distressed as he is himself, they don't touch Phil's scar.

"Did I hurt you?" Steve asks, his fingers brushing against Phil's hand.

"It's fine," Phil answers.

He knows that's as close to confirmation as he'll ever get. Phil doesn't like to outright lie to him, but the agent will do everything in his power to circumnavigate the truth if he thinks it'll protect Steve in any way. Phil didn't say 'no.' He didn't say 'yes' either. He supplied an answer that allows Steve to interpret the meaning however he likes. Needless to say, it's one of the man's more frustrating habits.

"If your hand is broken and I have to find out by seeing it in a splint, I'm not going to be happy," he says.

He feels Phil's shoulders quiver with silent laughter. "It's not broken. I might be a little sore tomorrow and I'll probably use my other hand to fill out reports, that's all. Happy?"

"I crushed your hand."

"You didn't crush it. You just squeezed a little harder than what's comfortable."

"Do you ever intend to give me a straight answer?"

"I'm afraid that's classified."

Steve snorts. Somehow, in times like these, when one of them doesn't want to talk about something painful, the situation always dissolves into a witty back-and-forth until they forget what they were talking about in the first place. Sometimes that's okay, other times Steve wishes they would talk. Of course, they do plenty of that besides; he's gotten Phil to open up to him in ways he'd never imagined, though the agent remains primarily reserved when it comes to this. Likewise, he's found himself doing the same, uttering things under cover of darkness that he can't bring himself to say in the harsh light of day.

"I'm sorry I woke you, anyway," Steve says.

"It's no trouble, you didn't wake me," Phil tells him.

"You were awake?" Steve questions with a frown. He's about to ask why when realization hits him and he blows out a harsh breath, tucking his chin against the top of the agent's head. "You too?"

"Yes," Phil says simply.

"I don't suppose you'd like to talk about it either?"

"Not especially."

Steve accepts that as a valid answer, his hand rubbing small circles in the other man's chest in a comforting gesture. "I'm sorry. I guess tonight's just not our night."

"It doesn't appear that it is," Phil says.

They've both got their fair share of baggage and Steve knows that there are things that neither of them are comfortable saying out loud yet. And that's fine. They're both rather private men so it would stand to reason that, even in their relationship, that's a boundary that needs to be respected. Phil's come a long way in the span of a few months, though. He smiles more often, Steve thinks, and not those famous half-smiles of his either; real, good, true smiles that Steve sees more in his eyes than on his lips.

He's learned to read the agent—is still learning—and how to detect the subtle differences in expression. To others, Phil appears to wear the same disarmingly placid smile in any situation. Steve knows better. He can read worry in the way the agent's eyes harden, giving his blue-gray gaze a decidedly cold edge. He can recount each time he's had to speak before the press, his gaze inevitably finding the apparently ordinary man standing at the back and even from a distance, even under the glare of the lights and the flash of the cameras, he can see the way Phil's eyes crinkle at the edges with affection. He sees the reassurance, the support, the devotion that no one else apparently can. They see a man in a suit (if they see him at all). Steve sees so much more.

Phil has an odd way of grounding him. In moments like these, when he's caught up in all the things he's lost, Phil is a living, breathing reminder of what he's gained. Because the agent currently wrapped in his arms is the exception; of all the things Steve's lost, Phil has been the only one to come back.

"The alarm is set to go off at 5:31 in the morning. You set it that way because you always wake naturally exactly one minute before your alarm and you like to make sure it's on the half-hour exactly. You'll lean over to switch it off before it ever makes a sound, which in turn will wake me up," Steve recites, his hand rubbing his partner's chest. "We'll go for a twenty minute jog. When we get back at 6:10, you'll put the coffee on and I'll take a fifteen minute shower and get ready for the day. At 6:35 you'll shower while I make the eggs. Breakfast at 7:00 sharp. We'll leave at 7:30 so that you're in your office at 8:00 exactly. Agent Sitwell will knock on your door at 8:45 to remind you that you've both got a meeting with Director Fury and Deputy Director Hill at 9:30. You'll have coffee and discuss the files you'll be reviewing until you leave your office at 9:20. You'll pretend not to notice when Jasper double checks that your office door is locked."

Steve feels the line of tension lessening in the agent's shoulders. The man is gradually beginning to relax back into his arms. It might sound like useless rambling to anyone else, but nothing calms Phil like structure and order. Steve's found that quietly reciting the man's schedule is one of the quicker ways to soothe him on nights such as this one. He continues his recitation, feeling Phil grow limp in his arms.

"How likely is it that you can make room in your schedule for dinner with me?" Steve murmurs.

He can practically hear the cogs turning in Phil's head as he calculates.

"I think I can write you in. Time?"

"Say… eight o'clock?"

"Mmm. I can make that work."

"I was thinking of that quiet Japanese place on the other side of town."

"Japanese? Feeling adventurous?"

"Well, you and Pepper seem to like it so much, maybe I want to see what all the fuss is about."

"You're sure you're not going to spit it in your napkin if you don't like it?"

Steve grumbles, leans in and bites the shorter man's earlobe. He grins when this causes Phil to jump and earns him an amused chuckle afterward.

"I'm not five, Phil," he says.

"I'm just surprised you decided to pick something so different," Phil murmurs.

"I figured a change of pace might be a good idea," Steve answers. "It's good to try new things, after all."

"Yes, it is," Phil answers.

Steve can almost feel the weariness in the agent's voice. There's still some tension in him though, a degree of it that won't leave him. Steve knows the feeling; he's steadily drifting towards sleep himself, but there is that need to remain awake, to fight it off. Sleep comes easier, though, with Phil in his arms. The subject of his nightmares suddenly becomes less threatening when the agent is warm and solid and alive, pressed close to him in their bed.

"Think you can go back to sleep?" he asks quietly.

Phil's answer is delayed. Steve feels the man shift in his arms until his hand finds one of Steve's. Only then does he hum in confirmation. Steve tightens his grip around his partner and prays for a few hours of easy sleep.

* * *

The day progresses as usual for Steve. Though he and Phil missed out on a few hours of sleep the night before, they managed just fine. Due to the effects of the serum, Steve doesn't usually need much sleep anyway, and Phil's scary competence means he can supplement any missed sleep with caffeine and willpower. Of course, Steve would prefer if it didn't have to come to that, but it's not something that can be helped.

He's pouring himself a cup of coffee at around eleven o'clock when Clint finds him.

"Cap," Clint says in greeting.

"Hey, Clint," Steve answers, nodding in greeting before looking back to his coffee, doctoring it to his liking. "How are those new arrows from R&D? Any good?"

"They're showing some promise, might need a bit of tweaking before they're field ready," Clint says. He hovers awkwardly in the doorway. "I need you to not freak out."

That catches Steve's attention. His head shoots up and he stares Clint down. "Why?"

"Before I say anything else, I need you to know that he's okay—"

Steve sets his coffee cup down just before he drops it, spilling half the contents over the counter. He mechanically reaches for a handful of napkins, fumbling to soak up the spill. Clint's beside him now, providing a slightly steadier hand.

"He's okay," Clint repeats. "Bruce and Tony and Sitwell are with him now, he's down in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical. There was a slight malfunction with his heart—"

"Jesus."

Steve abandons his effort to clean up his mess, bracing his hands on the edge of the counter and letting his head hang between his outstretched arms. This is not happening. He barely registers Clint's hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, hey. You're not listening to me. He's fine, Steve," Clint says. "He's a little shaken up, but he's okay."

"Okay," Steve answers, reaching up to scrub a hand across his face. "Right, okay. It's just… I mean he was… he was fine this morning…"

"And he's fine now," Clint repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. "Believe me, I get it. If it was Nat, I don't think I'd be as composed as you are. And while you have every right to freak out, but do you think you can keep it together long enough to go see him?"

Steve straightens up, trying to compartmentalize, to shove all the raw worry and panic and fear into a box deep inside himself, to be unpacked later. Right now, he needs to see Phil. And he can't let Phil see any of that mess.

"Yeah, let's go," he says quickly.

Clint nods, steering him away from the mess left on the counter. On the way to medical, he does his best to school his features into something resembling calm. Phil's okay. That's what's important. That's what he has to focus on. Most of that goes out the window when they round the corner and Steve sees Phil through the glass of the door. The agent is lying back against the pillows wearing an ashen mask of exhaustion, IV lines and wires running to machines hooked up to him, running beneath the sleeves and collar of his hospital gown. Jasper is planted in the seat beside the bed, engaging Phil in conversation.

It's Tony that waves them in, intercepting him before he can get to Phil.

"Tony, what happened?" Steve asks quietly.

Phil catches his eye and offers him a small smile of reassurance. He tries to return it before looking back to the billionaire before him, but is certain he fails miserably.

"There was a bit of a hiccup," Bruce says as he joins them. "SISSAH ceased functioning for approximately thirty seconds at nine o'clock this morning. It's a good thing he was with Agent Sitwell."

Steve turns his head. Jasper can't see him watching, of course, and Steve knows he'll have to take the man aside later to express his gratitude. He knows the bespectacled agent well enough to be confident in assuming he hasn't left Phil's side for a moment. Loyalty has never been something he's needed to question with Jasper.

"What kind of a hiccup are we talking about?" Steve questions, turning his gaze back to the two scientists.

Tony frowns. "Well, as great a prototype as SISSAH is, it's still a prototype. Do you remember a few months ago when he got zapped by that alien disk thing?"

Steve nods, purposely saying nothing about the guilt he sees in Bruce's eyes.

"The shock absorber in place wasn't meant to process that kind of voltage. But aside from that brief stoppage to begin with, there were no other problems. Phil didn't report any to me and neither did his doctors. So I assumed we'd gotten lucky, that SISSAH had been able to take more of punch than I'd hypothesized," Tony says, tapping a pencil against his open palm. He's fidgety. "Which was obviously incorrect."

Bruce takes over when Tony seems to draw into himself, likely thinking of things that Steve wouldn't understand even if Tony explained them.

"We performed a minimally invasive surgery and repaired the malfunctioning piece," Bruce explained. "All that's left now is to let him rest and have a physician watch over him the next few days to make sure the repairs were successful."

"And if they weren't?"

"Then we repair the damage."

"And if this keeps happening?"

"It shouldn't."

"Bruce," Steve says firmly.

Bruce folds his arms over his chest. "If it keeps happening, we're going to have to perform another transplant. Unfortunately, the circumstances of the first transplant mean that his body will no longer accept a natural heart. So it'd have to be another artifial one."

"I'm starting further developing on the working prototype tonight in the event that it comes to that," Tony says at last. "We're hoping it won't, but you know Agent. Always full of surprises."

Steve nods and the three of them stand there in silence for a brief period of time.

"You said he'll need to be watched by a physician?" Steve says questioningly.

"That'll be Bruce and I," Tony says. "He has to stay here tonight, but as long as he's looking okay tomorrow morning, S.H.I.E.L.D. medical's given us the green light to take him back to the Tower."

"Good," Steve says, a little woodenly. "That's good."

"Why don't you go talk to him," Bruce suggests. "We'll inform you if there's anything else you need to know."

"Right. Thank you," Steve says, looking over his shoulder to where Jasper is still speaking to Phil with Clint quietly lurking in the corner.

Leaving Tony and Bruce to their discussion, Steve approaches the hospital bed across the room. More than anything, he notes as he draws near, Phil seems just a touch annoyed that he has to be there in the first place. Which means that if Phil visibly comes off as a touch annoyed, then internally he's likely livid. Steve pulls up a seat beside Jasper's, glad for the small, reassuring smile Phil shoots him.

"Hey," Steve says by way of greeting. "I hear there was a bit of a hiccup."

"Nothing major," Phil answers.

"So I've been told," Steve says. "Still, I kind of wish they'd've let me know right away instead of waiting until after."

"Well, I could use a coffee. Barton?" Jasper says, rising from his seat.

"You're buying," Clint says, already moving towards the door.

Steve watches with raised eyebrows as the two agents beat a hasty retreat from the room, arguing as they make their way down the hall. He wonders if it was something he'd said. He looks back to Phil. The man doesn't seem to know either and Steve's about to shrug it off when he catches the barest gleam of something in the agent's eye: guilt. He leans forward in his seat.

"You asked them not to tell me," Steve guesses.

Phil's expression turns somewhat apologetic. "It was something minor and I didn't think it was prudent to worry you."

"Phil," Steve sighs in exasperation, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Sitwell had already revived me before the medical team even arrived," Phil explains calmly. "Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner explained the situation to me and I elected not to bother you until after the procedure was finished. I was going to be fine and if you'd been alerted to the situation, you would have worried needlessly."

"We've been over this," Steve says, trying not to sound chastising. "You can't just hide these things from me and leave me to find out about them later. I know you don't want to worry me, but that doesn't mean you can just leave me in the dark."

Phil dips his head in a nod. "I understand. I apologize for not letting you know."

Steve shakes his head. He's frustrated by yet another incident of being left out of a decision. He wonders, sometimes, how much Phil really trusts him. But now isn't the time to press the matter.

"Well, never mind that for now," he says, reaching out to lay a hand on the agent's arm. "How are you feeling?"

"Groggy, mostly," Phil replies. "A little sore from where Sitwell tased me."

"Wait, Sitwell tased you?" Steve asks, looking perplexed.

Phil taps the left side of his chest. "Needed a reboot."

"Right," Steve says. He'll have to ask Jasper about that later. "Tony and Bruce said we could take you home tomorrow."

"Yes, I'm to remain here for observation tonight, though," Phil says. Steve almost smiles at the barely disguised contempt in the agent's words. "Looks like we'll have to postpone our dinner date."

"I can wait," Steve assures him.

He knows that Phil is put-off by this incident. The agent has had enough problems accepting the artificial heart, but has done better recently. He's opened up marginally since they'd entered a relationship, allowing himself to share some of his fears and frustrations with Steve. This 'hiccup' just seems an ill-timed bump in the road. It worries Steve. He slides his hand down until he's grasping Phil's.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Steve inquires gently.

He sees the muscles in Phil's jaw jump.

"No," Phil says. "I'm fine."

Steve manages to refrain from saying anything. Trying to coax a conversation out of him right now is a bad idea. When Phil wants to be left alone, it's better to just leave him be. They're alike in that regard. But it doesn't stop him from fretting, from worrying that this is could mean a severe backtrack. Phil doesn't like to share his problems and getting him to do so had taken time. They'd both been healthy for each other in that regard; Steve never opened up like he did around Phil. The thought of Phil keeping all of his troubles to himself again was enough to make him feel ill.

He feels Phil's hand squeeze his and looks up.

"I don't want to talk now," Phil tells him. "But we can talk tomorrow. When we're alone."

If Phil sees Steve's shoulders slump with relief, he doesn't comment on it. The soldier offers him a smile, his thumb caressing the knuckles on the agent's hand.

"That I can work with," Steve says. "So for now, how about you get some sleep and later on I'll see about getting a spare cot and something for us to eat for dinner. There's a _Hoarders_ marathon tonight, too."

That earns him a smile.

"I'm not sure if I should be worried that you know there's a _Hoarders_ marathon tonight," Phil says with an honest chuckle.

"Maybe you're just a terrible influence," Steve says with a smile.

"I can live with that," Phil says, working to suppress a yawn.

Steve squeezes his hand once again. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

Phil tries his best to stay awake, but it's easy to see he's exhausted by the incident. As he watches the agent slowly fall asleep, Steve hopes that Bruce is right, that this won't happen again. Regardless, Phil won't be alone. That much he's certain of.


	2. Some Nights

**Had a little title change. Putting a little warning here ahead of time: this chapter contains discussion of suicide. If that's something that bothers you, go ahead and turn back now.**

* * *

Phil isn't happy with Fury's declaration that he's to take two weeks off—and really it's equal parts sad and amusing that there seems to be an understanding between the two of them that failure to comply will be met with a punishment of more forced time off—but he isn't fighting it either. As talented as he is when it comes to downplaying injury and illness, he can't simply walk off having his heart stop as quickly as he'd like.

If there's one thing Steve's learned about the agent it's that he hates inactivity. Somehow, Phil is always doing something—it had been a surprise to learn the man was a stress cooker which, coupled with Pepper's stress baking, meant they usually ate very well after tough missions. Phil had only told him once, but the fear he'd related to Steve was one they shared: the fear of being useless. Steve would be the first to assure the agent he's anything but, and yet Phil is still biting at the bit before he's even left S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical facility.

"It's just two weeks," Steve reminds him, laying a hand on his shoulder as they ride the lift up Avengers Tower.

"Two weeks too long," Phil answers. He's typing away at something on his StarkPhone and Steve resists the urge to see what it is; he really doesn't want to have to confirm his suspicions that, yes, Phil is conducting some sort of business. "There's no reason for me to take time off from work."

"Yes, there is," Steve says firmly. "I know that if Fury had said two days instead of two weeks you'd still think it was too long, but there's a reason. You have to _rest_."

"Two days would have been far more reasonable," Phil says. "Two weeks is excessive. I'm fine. Really."

Steve reaches out and takes hold of the agent's wrist, tugging slightly until he can't look at the phone any longer and has to look up at Steve instead. The soldier presses his hand to the wall above the shorter man's left shoulder and leans in, speaking quietly.

"Please," he says, his thumb rubbing slow circles into the agent's wrist. "It's just two weeks. I know, I get that that this bothers you. But it's important. You can't push yourself like that, Phil, you can't. If you don't do it because Fury ordered it, will you do it because I asked?"

He's more than a little surprised to see Phil's cheeks go a light pink as he clears his throat, his eyes focusing on a spot over the super soldier's shoulder. Steve turns his head to follow the agent's gaze and promptly has to try to keep the tips of his ears from going the same shade as he sees Tony watching with a smug expression and Bruce apparently trying to look anywhere except at them as they stand against the opposite wall. He'd forgotten they were even there. He moves away quickly, shifting back to his prior position standing at Phil's side.

"Oh, please, don't mind us. Do continue," Tony says, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

Steve rolls his eyes and looks away. Phil has gone back to whatever he was doing on his phone. Neither of them are very big on public displays of affection—Steve can't get over how some people can be so uncaring of who sees them "sucking face," as Clint so eloquently put it. He supposes that's all well and good for others if they're that kind of person, but neither of them are. If they're feeling particularly adventurous, someone's hand will rest on the small of someone else's back or there may be a brief touch of their fingers as they walk side-by-side down the hall. Anything more intimate than that is reserved for when they're alone. What he's just done is innocent enough, but it's still a more intimate gesture than either of them typically like to make while in the presence of others; even if those others happen to be the Avengers.

Needless to say, the situation's a little awkward for both of them. Thankfully, they reach their intended floor a few seconds later and Tony's more focused on leading the way than he is about poking fun of them. Just as they're stepping off the elevator, he feels something: Phil's grabbing his hand.

"Because you asked," he says simply.

He looks around quickly and makes sure Tony and Bruce won't notice before he presses a quick kiss to the agent's temple and murmurs a quiet 'thank you,' glad that Phil's actually taking the request seriously. He doesn't miss the small smile on the shorter man's face, nor the way Phil holds onto his hand just a fraction of a second longer than he usually would.

* * *

"I don't like being out of commission."

Steve levers himself up onto his elbow, his other arm still wrapped around Phil's waist. They're in bed together, nestled safely in the quiet of their shared bedroom. The floor used to be Steve's, but with how frequently Phil sleeps there—and the number of his things which have migrated there—it's no use referring to it as simply Steve's anymore. He'd fully expected the agent to drop right off to sleep once they'd gotten into bed; he certainly looks tired enough. Not that he's going to complain about Phil being willing to talk to him, but he wonders what's brought it on. Phil rolls back towards him slightly, looking up at him.

"Yesterday I promised you we'd talk," Phil reminds him.

"Oh. Right. I just… well, to be honest, I figured you'd just said that to get me off your back," Steve admits.

"If I'd changed my mind I would have said so, but I wouldn't lie to you," Phil says.

"I know. I know," Steve says quietly, kissing the other man's shoulder. "And I know you hate being out of commission, but it's for the best. You need to take this seriously, it's not something you can just brush off."

Phil's quiet for a moment.

"I _am_ taking this seriously," he says. "It doesn't change the fact that two weeks is excessive. If I have to take time off, I'll do it, but I can't just sit around and do nothing for two weeks."

"You won't be doing nothing," Steve assures him. "You're going to take it easy for two weeks so we can make sure you're really all right and then you can go straight back to too-late nights and too-long work days and all that paperwork that makes you so happy."

Phil snorts, but rolls over until he's facing Steve.

"You're not useless," Steve tell him.

He knows he's hit a nerve when the agent looks away from him. Phil is always humming with energy drawn from a source that Steve can't even begin to fathom. He's always active, always doing something, working as long as he can. By his own admission, his convalescence following the near-fatal wound dealt by Loki had been one of the hardest things he'd ever been through, simply because of the fact that he wasn't permitted to do anything. Even worse, the fact that he wasn't _capable_ of doing anything, of taking on his usual duties. Steve's not sure what the reason for it is, he just knows that the agent can't stand allowing himself to become what he sees as a burden. Phil thrives on his ability to be entirely self-sufficient and to take care of others on top of it. Being taken care of isn't something Phil can fully ease into.

"I know I'm not. You don't need to remind me," Phil insists.

"Then something else is bothering you," Steve says. He rests a hand on his partner's waist, maneuvering them closer together as he rubs slow, soothing circles into the shorter man's hip bone. "Talk to me."

Steve's more than a little surprised when Phil acquiesces after a moment's hesitation.

"This prototype wasn't meant to last forever and it won't. Even if there are no further complications for the next few months or years, it will need to be replaced eventually," Phil says.

"Tony's working on that now," Steve reminds him. "So when that happens, you'll be well taken care of."

Phil frowns, rubbing his chest without seeming to realize he's doing so. He's quiet for minutes on end, long enough for Steve to think that the man is through talking. But then he's surprised yet again.

"I'm forty-six, Steve," he says at last.

"So? I'm in my nineties. What's your point?" Steve asks.

"I'm not getting any younger," Phil answers.

Steve sighs loudly. "You're not old, Phil."

Phil moves to sit up, disentangling himself from the super soldier. "But I am getting older."

"What are you saying, exactly?" Steve asks, sitting up also.

Phil shakes his head. "The prototype has become faulty a little over a year since it was first implanted. Machines wear down over time. They need to be replaced. Replacing parts in a machine is one thing. It's simple, painless. But I'm not a machine, as you've been so intent on reminding me. So how many times is this going to happen? How many times will I need to have my chest opened up to replace a malfunctioning piece of machinery? How many times _can_ I do that?"

"It's better than the alternative," Steve says a little fiercer than he'd intended.

"At some point, I don't know that it will be," Phil admits.

Steve can't do much more than stare for a moment.

"I can't believe you'd say that," he says, disbelief coloring his words. "You of all people, you'd be the last person I would think would say that, who would think of just giving up."

"It's not giving up, it's thinking realistically," Phil says evenly.

"It's wallowing in self-pity," Steve bites back.

"And you wonder why we never talk," Phil retorts in a cool tone.

Steve doesn't have anything to say to that. They sit there in silence, not looking at each other, not saying anything. They've never really fought, but they've come close a number of times. This is just another one of those times. Steve doesn't _want_ to fight, especially not now. But he can't stand being cut out of the equation when Phil thinks it's appropriate.

"I don't want to fight with you," Steve begins, "but can you see why I'm upset here? You say you don't talk to me and you make decisions without me because you worry about me. I think that's true to a degree, but I have to wonder how much of it's worry and how much of it's the fact that you're just not sure if you can trust me."

He sees a shudder run through Phil's body as he inhales deeply. The agent pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut.

"You're right. I don't completely trust you," Phil admits.

Steve tries not to let the statement hurt, but it does regardless.

"But I do trust you more than anyone else. And I'm trying to trust you more," Phil adds. "_You_ don't completely trust _me_ either, as much as you'd like to think you do."

"Of course I trust you," Steve says with a frown.

"Is that why you're thinking of hiding my gun? Because you trust me?" Phil asks.

Steve stares. "How did you—?"

"After you asked me how I could give up, you glanced over at the bedside table," Phil recounts, waving a hand dismissively. "Do you honestly think I would do something like that?"

"No," Steve says. His shoulder slump. "I don't know. I don't think so, but the way you were just talking…"

"I wouldn't," Phil assures him. "Too much paperwork with suicides."

"Don't," Steve says, his tone warning.

Phil's next words are soft, apologetic. "That was… I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry."

Steve shakes his head. He knows the gallows humor is a defense mechanism they all use. That doesn't mean he wants to hear it now. His chest feels tight. He swallows thickly.

"Is that how you really feel, though? About your heart?" Steve asks.

The agent looks down at his hands before focusing his attention on Steve.

"I'm not giving up. But the thing of it is, even if I weren't in this line of work, even if I worked the safest desk job in the world, you'd still outlive me by years," Phil says slowly. "Stark's prototype saved my life, but it just might also be the thing that kills me, in the end. It may not be soon, but I'll be gone long before you; it's just a question of whether it will be in the field or because of this thing in my chest. I don't want to leave you, believe me, it's the last thing that I want, but it's going to happen. We can't change that and I don't want to go through this relationship pretending like it's never going to happen."

Steve knows that's the territory that comes with being involved with a man like Phil, just as Phil knows the same is true of being in a relationship with Steve. It's why he wants to enjoy it for as long as they both can. He's asking himself why Phil would be focusing on all of this now, but has to stop himself. Putting himself in the agent's position, he can't entirely blame him. And the reason for that is—

"You're afraid," Steve realizes.

Phil's lips draw into a thin line and he looks away. "I'm afraid."

And then Steve can't be bothered with being angry about anything. The fact that he's just heard the two words he'd never thought Phil would ever be able to say to him is mind-numbing enough so that all that's left is worry. He reaches out, dragging the agent to him and wrapping his arms around the man tightly. He can feel Phil's hands fisting the back of his shirt as they sit there, silent for several long minutes.

"I'm not going to kill myself, I'm not giving up and I'm not depressed," Phil says, his face pressed into Steve's chest. "I'm just weighing my options and trying to plan for the future. I don't want to worry you and I don't want to put this on your shoulders—"

"You're not, though. You need to understand that," Steve interrupts. "You know, you were the one who told me that a relationship is about sharing things. So if it's a burden, I want to share it with you. Let me help."

"I'm trying," Phil says at length.

"Try harder," Steve answers. He makes a thoughtful noise. "Like when we watched _Star Wars_. That part with Yoda. Remember?"

He doesn't have to see Phil's face to know the agent is smiling.

"Do or do not. There is no try," Phil recites back to him.

"Exactly," Steve agrees. He closes his eyes and trails his finger down the length of the other man's spine. "I'm worried, too. I'm worried about _you_. And I'm trying very hard not to get on your case, but you can't just shut down and shut me out. That's not helping either of us."

Phil nods, but doesn't speak. Several minutes pass in silence before he squirms in Steve's arms, shifting until he can ply the soldier's lips with a kiss that says "thank you" and "I'm sorry" and a score of other things. Phil might not have spoken the words, but Steve has found the agent doesn't always have to speak to get his message across.

He's not complaining.

* * *

Old habits die hard and despite his recent ordeal, Phil's awake as the sun begins to rise. Beside him, Steve is still sleeping; a rarity. They're both very prompt when it comes to getting out of bed and ready for the day, but he supposes since there's no real day to get ready for, Steve may have eased up some. Additionally, there's no way to tell how long Steve may have been awake after Phil had gone to sleep.

Even now, after having just woken, he feels sleep trying to pull him back. His first instinct is to resist, to rise, find a cup of coffee and find something to do. But before he can begin to move, a thought gives him pause. He remembers the conversation he'd had last night. He remembers that he's promised to take it easy. And really, he knows that he should. Besides that, he's just damn _tired_.

With some reluctance, he abandons his ideas of getting out of bed and rolls onto his side with a slow sigh. A few minutes of lying still and hoping to drift back off to sleep leaves him feeling agitated; he's drowsy, but not _quite_ enough to fall asleep. Instead of trying to force himself into the arms of slumber, he opens his eyes and focuses on the man sleeping beside him.

Steve is lying on his right side, facing Phil. His right hand is tucked beneath his pillow while his other is outstretched, lying in the space between them. The rising sun casts its light through the slots in the blinds, painting golden stripes along the length of the soldier's body. Steve looks peaceful in sleep with most of his face pressed into the pillow and hidden from view. His hair is mussed, sticking up at odd angles as though someone's been running their fingers through it.

Phil can't resist doing just that. The soldier's eyes open at the first pass of Phil's fingers though his hair, but he says nothing. Phil runs his hand through blond strands turned a honeyed gold in the light of the early morning sun and watches as too blue eyes lazily flicker from one spot to the next on his face and knows that the soldier is studying him just as he is being studied. Eventually Steve's eyes come to meet Phil's, bright and alert despite the fact that he'd just woken moments before.

Neither of them speak, both watching the other in the stillness of the world before it wakes. Phil listens to the ticking of the bedside clock and the sound of Steve's slow, even breaths; the only sounds which disturb the fragile silence.

Minutes pass, though he doesn't know just how many or how few, before Steve shifts closer, trading his pillow for Phil's. When he presses his lips to the agent's it's soft and unhurried, languid in its execution. Phil had thought he'd been relaxed, but it's as he's being kissed without that familiar raw, hurried need that he feels himself grow loose, pliant. So often their intimacy feels rushed, as though they need to race to the finish for fear of interruption. And, really, it's a reasonable fear considering it's happened. Frequently. _Too_ frequently.

Now, though… Now he feels like putty in the other man's hands. And speaking of hands; he still has one tangled in Steve's hair even as he feels one of Steve's hands slip beneath his t-shirt. He sighs into the kiss as the soldier's fingers trace old scars and older scars, trailing across his skin in the gentlest way possible. Steve is known for his feats of great strength, but so few seem to heed the words that there is nothing so strong as gentleness and nothing so gentle as true strength.

There's no expectation behind the kiss, no sense that it's the prelude to something else, and in fact Phil feels quite certain that Steve would be quite content to continue on as they are for some time. When they do part, it happens slowly on of them trailing after the other to continue the kiss several times before they call it quits. By this point Phil is in that cozy limbo between sleeping and wakefulness, sure that the trouble he'd been running into in trying to return to sleep had been very thoroughly taken care of. Perhaps, he thinks, there may be some merit to two weeks off. He'd felt a sudden stab of guilt at the realization that this is the first chance they've had a chance for a lie-in since… well, he can't even recall.

"You stayed in bed," Steve notes.

"Mmhmm."

"Good."

Phil's just about to let sleep reclaim him when he recalls their conversation the previous night and some of the things that were said. Some of the things he'd said to Steve.

"Last night," Phil mumbles. "Shouldn't've—"

"Go back to sleep," Steve commands quietly. "You're supposed to be resting."

Too tired to argue, Phil makes a mental note to try again later and settles in to try to get used to the idea that he's going to be sleeping in for a little while.

It doesn't take as long as he'd thought it would.


End file.
